


foundations

by threadoflife



Series: femlock verse [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Dirty Talk, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femslash, Foot Fetish, Foot Massage, Nature Imagery, POV Second Person, Poetic Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 07:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15091949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: Usually you don’t find feet particularly attractive, or beautiful.Sherlock proves to be another exception in a series of exceptions.





	foundations

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here
> 
> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/175366019687/it-surprises-you-sherlock-runs-around-half-nude
> 
> I surprise myself.

It surprises you.

Sherlock runs around half nude all the time, and you’ve grown almost accustomed to it. Half nude or not, bare feet are almost an ordinary occurrence: she says it improves her thought processes the way you do, when the soles of her feet keep direct contact with the floor. She can feel the surface underneath that way, the rough weave of your living room carpet or the cool touch of the wood. It’s grounding, anchoring.

You’re used to the sight of her feet. They’re elegant, you assumed that the first time your eyes skimmed over her body; they were bound to be elegant, on a creature with musician’s hands and such a mouth. Assumptions were confirmed when she casually draped herself over the couch the way she’s wont to do, feet on the armrest. Her toes were splayed and curled in the material, kneading at it like a cat. Long and slim, they seemed to be more primitive but equally elegant echoes of her fingers. You’d paused, stared, the first time you’d seen them. They were oddly beautiful. Feet had never been particularly beautiful to you, but hers were. You went back to your newspaper, brushed it off as just another exception she was for you. That, at least, was not odd at all, just your new, thrilling reality.

The thing didn’t go anywhere, at first: you liked her dragging the heels of her feet along the back of your calves when you were in bed; you adored the sight of her toes peaking out from beneath the blanket.

When she put her feet in your lap then, one night with crappy telly on, it was a natural thing to do: you reached out, unthinking, and wrapped your hands around them. They were clean, and beautiful, and there wasn’t a part of her you weren’t aching to touch, all the damn time. The arches of her feet were deep curves, a lovely geometrical impossibility; your fingertips trailed over them, feather light like whispers, and she reflexively sat up with a jerk, leaned forward and bit into your forearm. You paused like that, her teeth in your jumper, your fingers less than an inch away from the hypersensitive skin of her feet, eyes locked together, questioning, daring, surprised: _shall I? Would you like…?_

You felt more than saw her nod. She muttered, “Harder,” and you complied: harder touches to her feet; touches she could stand. So you gripped the middle part of her left foot, dug your thumb into the swell of the upper balls of her feet for better hold and your fingers with pressure into the sole of her foot. The skin there was rough around the balls, a little rubbery when it dipped down in the back: a healthy amount of callus, befitting Sherlock’s oftentimes roughhouse behaviour. _It’s natural,_ you could hear her say in your head, _callus is natural. Improves resistance of otherwise fragile skin. Like hell will I lose it._

You gave the her in your head an answering, agreeing hum, and proceeded to massage her foot and toes until she was loose-limbed and sighing. You would have loved to go on—you would have loved to go on until she’d be quivering instead, breathing a little more heavily: until contentedness would turn into ache. You could see it, see the sweet twinges in her crotch transform into squirming. It wouldn’t be the first time you had her like that, but it would be the first time caused through such gradual, light torture. By the time you’d get anywhere she’d have her hand down her pants, guaranteed. Impatient brat.

You would have—but the doorbell stopped you.

That was the only development for a while.

Much later became now: after countless cases and arguments and tiresome but wonderful living with her, you return from recon on a stormy autumn morning at three. She is bitchy and you’re worn out, and you haven’t been talking the last hour. You can’t even be bothered to slap some sense into her; sleep is all you want. Still you drag the two of you into the shower, cursory quick washes. You stay for two minutes longer, letting the hot water relax your damn shoulder. When you stumble into the bedroom, you’re sleep-heavy and drained, ready to sleep for the next ten hours at least.

Sherlock is, too: draped over the bed with her knees bent at the end, bare feet on the floor. All of her is bare, you realise in the next, breathless second. She’s all sharp valleys and jutting bones, a natural calamity in human form that even the low light of the lamp on the nightstand can’t soften. The hand thrown over her face hides her expression, but you can read in the lines of her relaxed arms and legs, splayed and loose, that she’s just as tired as you. Her hipbones fall sharply like fatal cliffs to the concave cup of her belly: in that centre, her happy trail, a gentle start that becomes wilder further down: becomes a lush thicket of soft, damp pubic hair, which, despite the faintly chemical smell of her wash, still smells like her, clinging to your nose if you were to bury it there (persistent like the imagined, thick smell of rain on spring mornings); and particular, musk and her.

Her ribs are hills that climb up to the bloom of her tits, generous handfuls of tight but supple flesh that fall to the sides, slightly, like gravity draws water, the same push and pull. Her nipples are soft, closed like flowers first are. The plane of her chest, simultaneously such hollow—hallow—and fruitful country. Next to the ample spring that is her cunt, your favourite place to dwell.

She’s splendid like nature: a monstrosity, violently drawing you in with desire, sapping from you until you’ve lived and died for her; a wonder, one you behold in awed incredulity, occupying you with a sense of inarticulable fulfilment. She’s a woman, one you feel for with the intensity of religion, a love and crave that defies rational belief. She’s both inspiration and death; a myth, and yet so plain. She’s woman: she’s multitude: she’s all.

Holding that beloved everything, you notice for the first time, quite consciously, are her feet. Lean and long, they are placed loosely on the floor. Loosely, yet securely: they wouldn’t let her fall. They keep her upright, curious as they are. Her ankles are sharp cuts of bone, surrounded by hard muscle and tough tendons. The heels, strong curves of solidity. The inward arch, gentle and precise, fragile. Then, the spread of her toes: a strange mix of tight knuckles and slimness.

Her feet, odd and elegant. The foundations that hold the temple of her.

The dull thud of your knees on the floor draws her attention. She gives an annoyed groan, raises her head, stares down the length of her body at you: you, dark-eyed and chest burning, surprising on your knees and surprised. Because it does: surprise you. You’ve never considered feet to be something that needed to be especially coveted; you’ve never considered them beautiful. Yet here you are, kneeling before the bed, before her, between her legs.

She reads you as she always does. She groans again, a disbelieving, “Oh, God,” and then more forcefully, “ _Please_ ,” lets her head fall back and lets you have her.

Have her you do: you shift back, take her weighty calf, raise it, position her foot by your face. You rub your cheek along the heel, kiss her inward arch. You lick around the balls of her feet, delicately; you lick into the dips before her toes begin; you open your mouth and close your lips around her toes, one after the other, sucking them as you would suck her fingers, her clit, her nipples, her mouth. On your knees, you worship her, and her throaty mutters of Jesus slide into renditions of _joan j-joan jjjjooooaaaan,_ the slide of the lush affricative into vowels into, finally, incoherence, so fucking sweet it pulses in your clit.

Your mouth is sore when she finishes with weak pelvic twitches, your tongue a used up muscle, tired with exhaustion. You depart from her feet with a lingering lick, which gains you an unsteady kick to the upper arm. You feel shaky, light with desire, and your cunt feels heavy with want. You look up at her, and she blinks, just as shaky and shocked, looking down at you.

You cock your head, lick your abused lower lip. Quirk your eyebrow.

She grins, crooked, and her breathing is still heavy. “You filthy little bitch,” she says, hoarse, darkly pleased.

You put her foot gently on the floor. “I know,” you say, grinning right back at her. You rise up from the floor with your hands that trail up her calves, her legs. “But not quite.”

“Oh?” Sherlock looks amused from where she observes, heavy-lidded, you sitting down on her middle.

You lean down on your forearms, let your bellies and breasts touch. You breathe together, now slow and quiet. Into her ear, you correct, “ _Your_ filthy little bitch,” in a low whisper. The two of you descend into giggling, high-pitched and content, your bellies shaking together.

She draws you into a slow, lingering kiss. Her fingers slide down, both on your back and down your front, until with a gravelly _mmmmh_ into your mouth, she finds you.

Her feet slide up and down the backs of your calves.

 


End file.
